


Alcohol Poisoning

by healthycereal



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drunk Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Emetophilia, Grooming, M/M, SO MUCH Vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 00:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20537426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/healthycereal/pseuds/healthycereal
Summary: Excessive drinking can be hazardous to everyone's health.





	Alcohol Poisoning

Beck quietly nursed his own drink, wanting to fully savor Peter once the two were alone, but excitedly urged him to tip back one after another. It started with beer and quickly devolved into whatever looked, according to Peter, ‘coolest’ on the menu. It didn’t take long for him to loosen up, sidling closer and closer to Beck the longer the night went on. It’s when their legs are pressed together and a hand ventures up Beck’s thigh in what Peter guesses (hopes) is an erotic gesture that the two of them leave for the former’s hotel room. Peter had excitedly offered his first but Beck ventured a guess that it probably wouldn’t be good if one of his teachers caught them. 

The two are ambling through the dead city when Peter lurches forward and roughly braces himself against a wall of the alley they were cutting through. He buries his face into the arm he’s using to steady himself, the other one clutching uselessly at his stomach, desperate to halt the nausea that’s crawling up his throat. The fuzzy glow that had settled in his chest as he spent the night with Beck had bloomed into cloying heat. Indignation made his face burn the most, his mind misty but still shamefully aware of Beck’s presence just behind him. He makes no motion to help and instead watches with mild interest as Peter spits out a thick mouthful of saliva and tries to breathe it out with uneven, short pants. It only serves to make the fullness in his throat swell, culminating in a violent retch, watery vomit splattering onto the pavement below. Flecks of his sickness splash back and spatter his legs as his throat helplessly convulses into another heave, tears springing to screwed shut eyes.

Beck doesn't turn away, strangely endeared by the sight. It bears a sort of juvenile charm, overindulging so carelessly, fervent to feel some semblance of maturity. It was something he did when he was younger, something he just sort of assumed everyone did at some point, a kind of irresponsible right of passage. And yet… here’s Peter, woefully inexperienced. The way he tearily keens, trying to suppress another gag, sends a dark chill down Beck’s spine.  _ The  _ Spider-man being a teenage boy (and possibly the only teenage boy) genuinely devoted to studiousness and measured responsibility felt like a gift  _ just  _ for him. Being afforded the opportunity to personally strip him of his innocent guilelessness, piece by piece, was almost dizzying. And now was as good a time as any to do that. He wordlessly presses himself against Peter’s back, making him flinch in surprise. 

“Mr. Bec—” His voice breaks and he falls into a rough cough, the stinging in his throat suddenly apparent. He slowly swallows a few times before trying to speak again, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. His whole body feels sore in a hundred different ways, an insistent pounding painfully beating at his head. The world seems to gently sway around him, his legs shaking weakly, the only thing keeping him grounded the familiarity of Beck’s warmth pressing at him from behind. He doesn’t really understand why he’s so close, the acrid smell of vomit now apparent in the air. It’s not unwelcome, he guesses, and he doesn't mind when one of his hands comes to lightly rest on his sore stomach. He dimly hopes that means he isn’t mad at him. He’d been biting back the pit that grew in his stomach but now it was alarmingly hard to ignore, his most prevalent concern not wanting to inconvenience Beck. It didn’t feel like he had much else, not just in Prague but anywhere, and he didn't want to ruin that. “I’m sorry, I’ve never— I tried not to,”

“Happens to the best of us,” He rubs soothing circles onto Peter’s clothed stomach, letting his other hand wander up to gingerly touch his neck. Peter swallows wetly, sniffling. It doesn’t serve to aid the lurching in his stomach but is, at least, a little reassuring. He tries to choke back waves of nausea, desperate not to embarrass himself any more. Beck’s fingers creep upwards to sit at his wet bottom lip. Under any other circumstances, Peter would obediently open up to accept them but he keeps his mouth hesitantly closed. “But I can tell you from experience, the best thing to do is let it out.”

“You, you mean you want me to just—?” Before his marred thoughts can process what Beck is saying, he has two fingers down his throat, pressing at the back of his tongue. He’s barely able to make a squeak of surprise before his throat convulses and he staggers forward, heaving around them. Beck pulls his fingers away and admires the new rush of vomit that follows them, the muscles under his other hand spasming wildly. He delights in the way his lithe frame trembles and shudders against his, slick noises of exertion clear above the sound of his sick hitting the ground. He’s unguarded, sputtering and whimpering, and Beck thrills at it, offering him an arm to steady himself. He clings reverently to it, spitting out what bile he has left in his mouth to the ground. 

He feels Beck pressing kisses onto the back of his neck, trailing them to his jaw and leans into the touch, dazed. He hiccups out more tears, overwhelmed by how lucky he feels to have ever met the older man. He lets Beck take him by the shoulder and turn him around, pressing him to the wall he’d braced himself against. It would be smart to step aside to avoid stepping in the mess, but neither of them have the clarity of mind. Beck’s is occupied relishing the sight of the trembling teenager before him; his hair sticks thickly to his forehead, sweat running into the myriad of fluids that had accumulated on his face. Beck decidedly wants to add to that list before the end of the night. Peter’s shies under the scrutiny, drawing his eyes downward and wiping a sleeve across his snotty nose, and God. It takes an otherworldly amount of self control for him to resist pinning him down and fucking him there. The fun in that is only temporary, though, and Beck has always preferred the long con. “Don’t you feel better now?”

Peter nods dumbly, throat raw. He doesn’t know why Beck would force him to puke, but assures himself it was for a good reason, because he knows better than him. He does feel better, if only by a fraction, but everything still feels uncomfortably foggy. Through the lights being uncomfortably bright and the world swaying around him, the only thing that is semi-coherent in his mind is the sinking feeling of humiliation. He finds himself avoiding eye contact while he speaks, hoarse and disjointed. “But, I’m still really sorry, Mr. Beck. Oh, thank you, too, for… I’m sorry you had to, but—”

“It’s really alright, Peter,” He claps a hand onto one of his shoulders reassuringly, laughi ng. Peter’s surprised by the noise but glad he doesn’t seem to be upset with him, or even that disgusted. He sniffles and weakly chuckles along. Beck smiles at the small noise and shrugs. “Not like you have much self control, right?” 

Beck almost laughs out loud at the way his face crumples in response.  He’s academically minded, not unlike Peter, and likes to approach everything in life with a plan, some concise order of operation. And from the moment they’d met, it was clear in his mind how he’d go about Peter, about Spider-man— break him down, build him up. It was almost  _ too  _ easy to show him how directionless he was, but that didn’t make it any less fun. He was as pliable as he was naive, quickly lulled into believing that he really was broken nearly beyond repair. But not totally beyond repair. Beck was the one who could cure him of that uselessness and, of course, Peter was grateful to let him. He leans in close, looming over him. 

“You wanna make it up to me? Show me how good you  _ can  _ be?” Peter wordlessly nods, eyes blearily gazing up at him. He’s trying to bite back embarrassed tears and is scarcely succeeding, his gut twisting with nausea and shame in equal amounts. The liquor makes him that much more susceptible to his own emotions, his head swimming with a handful of blurry self deprecating thoughts. If there was something he could do to redeem himself, even slightly, then he was willing to do it. Beck gives him a light shake, pulling him from his thoughts, and says simply: “On your knees.”

“Wh— But I…” Peter splutters, embarrassed. He can’t articulate any one of the thoughts that tumble through his fogged mind. What if someone catches us? More pressingly, what if I throw up all over you? He can’t imagine Beck, or anyone, would be pleased at the notion. “What if I, I… I mean, on your…” 

“Easy. You won’t.” The edge in Beck’s voice sends a cold punch of anxiety through Peter’s gut. Somewhere, something in his head tells him that this probably isn’t a good idea, but he kneels down regardless. He ventures still unsteady hands to his belt and peers up at him with red rimmed doe eyes. That dutiful eagerness to please always goes straight to his dick. Beck playfully cards a hand through his hair, tousling it. 

Peter flushes and sets to work unbuckling his belt, then unbuttoning his pants. Beck lets out a quick breath of relief when Peter pulls him free, exposing him to the cool air. He gives his dick a few reverent strokes before leaning forward and pressing a chaste kiss to the tip. All of his experience being from watching poorly acted porn was just  _ too  _ good, Beck thought.  Peter puts a hand on Beck’s hip to keep himself steady and slowly begins to take him into his mouth. What he’s too apprehensive to try and fit into his mouth, he uses his free hand on. Beck doesn’t seem to mind the hesitance, groaning when Peter starts to twist it in tandem with shallow bobs of his head. The motion alone makes his stomach churn uncomfortably, but he presses on, ignoring it as best he can. He tries to breathe evenly through his nose to ward off the creeping fullness in his throat. Beck encourages him to swallow more, lightly urging him forward by the hair. Through hooded eyes he can see the discomfort apparent on Peter’s face, and it only serves to spur him on. He grips his hair tighter and guides himself further in, forcing Peter to retract the hand he was using as a buffer.

Without warning, Beck thrusts into him, the tight grasp on his hair keeping him from jerking back in surprise. Peter’s chokes at the sudden roughness, fingers digging into Beck’s hip. Every ounce of his energy going towards willing himself from gagging. His thrusts are shallow, but there’s still a frantic sense of alarm growing heavier on Peter’s mind the more Beck fucks into him. His eyes are squeezed shut, new tears, this time of exertion, spilling down his face. Beck ventures deeper thrusts, not heeding anything but his  _ own  _ pleasure, the slick sounds Peter’s making below him only serving to spur him on. Panting, he fills the expanse of Peter’s throat, the boy’s nose bumping against the dense brown curls at the base of his dick. He gags roughly, throat spasming around the intrusion, sending Beck over the edge with a sharp gasp. 

Peter doubles over when he’s finally let go of, hands wildly flying to cover his mouth to keep him from throwing up. It’s a pointless endeavor and with a final weak retch what little his body has left flows thickly through his fingers and onto his lap. He falls into body wracking, broken sobs, overwhelmed in every sense. Beck tucks himself back in, admiring the mess sat below him before crouching down to be level with him. Now came the building. 

Under other circumstances, he’d try to comfort him with a hug or hold his hands but... He wrinkles his nose at the prospect of getting his jumper covered in vomit. Especially someone  _ else’s  _ vomit. The smell in and of itself was getting to be uncomfortably overwhelming. On the upside, at least, he’ll get to use it as a chance to bathe with him in the needlessly gaudy hotel shower. That is, if he can somehow get to his room carrying a drunken, vomit covered teenage boy without someone calling the police. He pushes Peter’s sweaty hair away from his forehead so he can plant a ginger kiss on his flushed skin. It doesn’t halt the shaking of his shoulders, but at least serves to calm him down and get his attention. Beck cups his face affectionately and Peter gratefully falls into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. As cute as he is stupid.

“Let’s get back, yeah? Get you cleaned up and in bed?” Beck runs a thumb over his cheek and Peter nods, sitting up some. He was feeling nothing short exhausted, mentally and physically, so taking a shower and slipping into bed next to Mr. Beck sounded nothing short of ideal. He quickly reflects on how thankful he is to have someone who cares so much about him before trying to shakily get to his feet. He lets Beck help him up eagerly takes his hand when he offers it, feeling better already. 

**Author's Note:**

> alternative title: B.A.R.F


End file.
